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Eve's skull throbbed with the particular intensity reserved for terrible decisions and tequila.
The morning light was too sharp, slicing through the gaps in her eyelids like accusations. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool, then set on fire, and her stomach rolled with each careful step toward home. Too much to drink last night; though hanging out with Stacey again had been worth it. Worth the shots, worth the stories, worth staying out until the small hours like she was twenty-five instead of forty-nine.
She eased the front door open with the careful precision of someone who'd perfected the art of sneaking in. The hinges barely whispered, and she held her breath, listening for signs of life. Avani's inevitable screeching about missing makeup or Vinnie's rapid-fire questions about everything and nothing were the last things her fragile head could handle.
Still clad in last night's too-tight jeans, a decision she was already questioning with every uncomfortable step and her boots dangled from one hand, heavy and awkward. She'd crashed on Stacey's ancient sofa like a teenager avoiding disappointed parents. Only just dragged herself upright an hour ago, promising herself she'd never drink again while simultaneously knowing it was a lie.
Except she wasn't a teenager anymore. She was forty-nine. An old married lady now, for God's sake. She was supposed to drink wine at dinner and go to bed by ten, not knock back shots with friends half her age and stagger home at this ungodly hour feeling like death warmed over. She wasn't even sure she was entirely sober yet, the world still had that soft, tilting quality that suggested her blood alcohol was fighting a losing battle against time.
The kettle clicked in the kitchen, sharp and decisive. Suki was already up. Of course she was. Suki, who rose at the same time every morning regardless of day or season, had undoubtedly heard Eve's key in the lock despite her best efforts at stealth.
Eve winced and shuffled into the kitchen, trying to appear less disheveled than she felt. There Suki stood, perfectly composed in her navy dressing gown, hair already brushed and pinned back, buttering toast with the methodical precision she brought to everything. Toast that was clearly for Eve, since Suki's usual breakfast was parathas or cereal, not dry English bread. The consideration of it, even in her state, made Eve's chest tighten with something that wasn't just hangover guilt.
"You reek of tequila," Suki said without looking up, though there was something almost amused in her tone.
Eve froze in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of how she must smell. She couldn't quite read Suki's expression, couldn't tell if this was the prelude to a lecture or something else entirely.
"Sorry," she managed, her voice coming out rougher than intended. But when Suki turned, she wasn't scowling. Her expression was soft around the edges, touched with something that looked suspiciously like concern rather than anger.
She just looked tired. And a little worried. The kind of worry that came from love rather than judgment.
Eve thanked whatever gods she no longer believed in for remembering to text Suki sometime around two AM about crashing at Stacey's. A moment of drunken clarity that had probably saved her from a much worse conversation this morning.
"I'm glad you had fun," Suki said, and the sincerity in her voice caught Eve off guard. Like she actually meant it. There was even a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, the one that made the lines around her eyes crinkle in the way that still made Eve's heart skip.
Eve blinked, struggling to process this response through the fog of her hangover. "Really?"
Suki poured hot water into a mug, Eve's favorite mug. Steam rose between them, carrying the sharp, clean scent of peppermint tea. "Well, I'd have preferred one less drink and you home at a decent hour. But yes, I'm glad."
It wasn't a trap. Somehow, impossibly, it wasn't a trap.
Eve rubbed her temple with the heel of her hand, grinning despite the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. "You're very zen for someone married to a hungover lesbian who just rolled in at... what is it, six?"
"Five-thirty," Suki corrected, crisp but not unkind. She sighed, but it was the sound of exhaustion rather than exasperation, and she set the toast on the table with a gentle clink of china. "Come on, eat something."
There was no edge to the command. No lecture brewing beneath the surface. Just plain concern, delivered with the kind of gentle firmness that Eve was still getting used to after years of relationships where care came with conditions attached.
Eve obeyed, her legs threatening to give out as she made her way to the kitchen table. The chair felt like a gift, solid and reassuring beneath her unsteady weight. "I'm not sure I can manage food right now."
"You can." Suki's voice held the particular quality of someone who'd raised four teenagers and knew exactly which buttons to push and when. "Just a few bites. Then you can sleep on the sofa. The kids won't be up for hours."
The toast was exactly what Eve needed; plain, dry, uncomplicated. She managed three small bites before the thought of more made her stomach lurch, and she pushed the plate away with an apologetic grimace.
"That's all I can manage," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
"It's half a slice," Suki observed, but without judgment.
"It's enough," Eve insisted, and meant it.
Suki studied her for a moment, then simply nodded and carried the plate to the sink. No arguments, no pushing. When she returned, she held out her hand. "Up."
Eve let herself be guided to the living room sofa, Suki's hand warm and steady at her elbow. The cushions received her like an old friend, and she sank into them with a grateful sigh. Suki tucked a blanket around her, the soft gray throw that usually lived folded over the back of the armchair then disappeared briefly.
She returned with a glass of water and a mixing bowl, setting both within easy reach on the coffee table. "Just in case," Suki said dryly, and Eve managed a weak chuckle.
"Thanks," Eve mumbled, already feeling the pull of sleep at the edges of her consciousness.
Suki looked down at her then, and Eve was struck by the sheer love on her wife's face. Not disappointment, not irritation. Just love, warm and uncomplicated and freely given.
She hadn't known what to expect when she came stumbling through the door, smelling like a distillery and looking like she'd been dragged backward through a hedge. But it wasn't this, Suki looking at her like she was precious rather than problematic.
"I love you," Eve said, the words slipping out almost absently. But she meant them, could feel the truth of them in every cell of her body. This overwhelming tenderness for the woman who could have lectured her, could have made her feel ashamed, but chose instead to make her toast and tuck her in like something worth caring for.
"I love you too," Suki whispered, smoothing the blanket over Eve's chest and tucking it carefully around her shoulders. Her hand lingered for a moment, a gentle weight, before she brushed a kiss against Eve's forehead and stepped back. "Now sleep it off. You're no use to anyone like this."
"Yes, dear," Eve muttered, already sinking deeper into the cushions, her body finally beginning to relax. "Marrying you was the best decision I ever made."
Suki snorted, the sound fond rather than derisive. "Just don't be sick on the rug. I had it cleaned last week."
This was what love looked like, Eve realized, not grand gestures or passionate declarations, but this quiet miracle of being cared for even when you reek of tequila and bad decisions. The comfort of knowing that someone will make you toast when you're falling apart, will choose concern over judgment, will love you even when you're not particularly lovable.
Before drifting off completely, Eve swore she felt Suki's hand sweep gently through her hair once more, softer than a whisper, a reminder that she was safe, that she was home, that she was loved.
--
It was hot. Too hot. Unbearably, impossibly, unreasonably hot.
Eve shoved the duvet off with a frustrated groan, the sheets twisting around her legs like accusatory fingers. Her skin was damp with perspiration, fringe plastered to her forehead, pillow soaked with sweat at the back of her neck. Even her T-shirt, the thin cotton one she'd specifically chosen for sleeping clung uncomfortably to her overheated skin.
Disoriented, she blinked at the ceiling, chest rising and falling too quickly as though she'd been running. The air in the bedroom felt thick and stifling, pressing down on her like a weight. Yet outside their window, it was February in London.
"Bloody hell," she muttered, kicking irritably at the sheets until her legs were free. They felt restless, twitchy, as though her entire body was rebelling against something she couldn't name.
She knew why, of course. She'd known for months now, had been cataloguing the signs like a reluctant scientist documenting her own decline. The sleepless nights that came without warning. The sudden sweats that left her feeling like she'd run a marathon. The way her body seemed to be shifting beneath her skin, moving into unfamiliar territory without asking her permission.
She just didn't want to say it aloud. Didn't want to give it a name and make it real. She was fifty years old, and her body was writing a new chapter whether she was ready to read it or not.
Hot flashes. Menopause. The words sat in her mind like unwelcome guests.
It didn't feel right. Too soon, somehow, though she knew perfectly well that fifty was exactly when these things happened. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut against the unfairness of it all.
I'm newly married, for God's sake, she thought desperately. She should be glowing with happiness, radiant with new love, alive with all the possibilities that stretched ahead of them. Not wrestling with her own body like it had turned traitor overnight. Not burning up in the middle of winter while her wife slept peacefully beside her.
"It's so bloody hot," Eve muttered again, scrubbing her face with both hands as though she could physically wipe away the discomfort.
Beside her, Suki stirred, making the small questioning sound she always made when pulled from sleep. "Hmm?"
"I said it's bloody hot," Eve repeated, her voice coming out sharper than she intended. "I'm getting old."
In the soft gray light filtering through the curtains, Suki turned toward her with a small, sleepy smile that somehow managed to be both sympathetic and amused.
"Well, I'm older," Suki pointed out reasonably.
Eve huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob, depending on how you looked at it. "Yeah, but you're not melting in your sleep like some sort of human radiator."
Suki hummed thoughtfully, pushing herself up on one elbow with the quiet elegance she somehow maintained even when half-asleep. "No, but I am married to someone who apparently runs hotter than a boiler at three in the morning."
"Thanks for that observation," Eve muttered, though she could hear the fondness creeping into her voice despite herself.
Suki leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, completely unfazed by the sheen of sweat there. Her lips were cool against Eve's overheated skin, a small relief amid her body's rebellion.
"That wasn't a complaint," Suki said softly.
And Eve knew it wasn't. She could hear the sincerity in her wife's voice. She watched as Suki slid out of bed. Eve watched her cross to the window and push it open. A sharp gust of February air rushed in immediately. It bit at Eve's sweat-dampened skin, making her shiver, but she didn't complain. The relief was instant and overwhelming, the kind of cool that felt like salvation.
She noticed Suki's shoulders hunch instinctively against the sudden cold. It was no secret that Suki hated winter, despised the way the damp London air seemed to settle into her bones and stay there. Eve had teased her more than once about her habit of sleeping in jumpers and socks, sometimes even a cardigan on the worst nights.
But right now, none of that mattered. Suki was choosing Eve's comfort over her own. Suki adjusted the window wider, allowing more of the cold air to pour in, then turned back toward the bed. She crossed to the dresser and began opening drawers, she didn't make a fuss about it, just selected one of Eve's old t-shirts.
Then Suki knelt beside the bed, bringing herself down to Eve's level. She brushed her hand against Eve's damp arm, her gentle and deliberate, grounding touch.
"Arms up," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep but infinitely patient.
Eve obeyed without arguing, too hot and uncomfortable to pretend she was fine, too deeply in love to resist the care being offered. Suki removed the damp shirt carefully. Her movements were efficient but tender. She slipped the clean shirt over Eve's head, smoothing it down over her chest and shoulders with gentle hands. Her fingers lingered at the hem for just a moment, then moved to brush the damp strands of hair back from Eve's forehead.
The simple touch was unexpectedly comforting, a reminder that she wasn't facing this alone. Suki pressed a soft kiss to Eve's cheek, chaste and grounding, cool against the heat that still radiated from her skin.
Then she slipped back into bed, arranging herself behind Eve, one arm wrapped around Eve's waist, her palm settling against her stomach. She began to rub slow, steady circles against Eve's back, simply offering her presence as an anchor.
Eve breathed. Slower now, more controlled. The heat radiating from her skin didn't disappear completely, she suspected it would be a while before her body settled back into equilibrium but something else began to fade.
The shame. The embarrassment. The creeping sense that she was somehow failing at being the woman Suki had married. The fear that getting older meant becoming less desirable, less wanted, less worthy of love.
Because here was Suki. Solid and steady and completely unruffled by Eve's physical rebellion. Just acceptance. Just care. Just love, offered as easily as breathing.
"I really love you," Eve whispered, her eyes still closed. The words felt inadequate for the magnitude of what she was feeling, this overwhelming gratitude for being loved exactly as she was, sweaty and hormonal and falling apart at the seams.
"I know," Suki said softly, her lips brushing against Eve's hairline. "I love you too."
And Eve thought, not for the first time, that maybe getting older wasn't the end of the world, not if it meant she got to do it with Suki. Not if it meant having someone who would open windows in the middle of winter and change her shirts and hold her while her body figured out how to be fifty.
Not if it meant being loved through all of it.
--
Her head was splitting; this was far beyond the reach of paracetamol or wishful thinking. This was a full-body, nauseating, relentless pain centered behind her left eye, pulsing with each heartbeat.
Eve leaned heavily against the hallway wall, one hand pressed flat against the cool plaster for support, the other gripping her half-finished mug of tea so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The kitchen light was too harsh. The clatter of breakfast dishes sounded like cymbals crashing, and even the usually beloved voices of Avani and Nugget felt like needles being driven directly into her brain. Every sound seemed amplified, every movement too bright, too sharp, too much.
She'd known the moment she opened her eyes that morning that something was wrong. The light filtering through the curtains had been too sharp, too aggressive. Her head had been pounding, and her whole body had been in pain.
Still, she'd had plans. They were supposed to have Stacey, Denise, Sharon, Linda and Kathy over for Sunday lunch, something she knew Suki had been looking forward to for weeks. If anything had come out of the mess that was that Christmas was that Suki finally had friends, proper friends. Eve didn't want to make a fuss, didn't want to be the reason their carefully planned afternoon fell apart. She'd intended to power through it, as she always did, take some pills, drink some coffee, paste on a smile and soldier on until the pain receded.
Her body, however, had other ideas entirely.
She'd made it through the early part of breakfast, sitting at the kitchen table with Avani and Nugget while they chatted about their plans for the day. She'd nodded and murmured appropriate responses while every sound pounded against her skull like hammers. She'd smiled through gritted teeth, wincing when she thought no one was looking.
The kids didn't need to see her in pain. "Can you help me clear this, Eve?" Avani had asked, cheerful and oblivious, gesturing toward the scattered plates and cups.
"Course I can, love," Eve had replied automatically, her voice sounding normal despite the fact that her vision was beginning to swim at the edges. She'd risen carefully from her chair, gathered two plates with deliberate movements, and made it exactly three steps toward the sink before her knees buckled without warning.
The plates had clattered to the counter as she gripped the edge, her knuckles white with the effort of staying upright. The room had tilted dangerously, her pulse roaring in her ears, pain exploding behind her eyes in brilliant white flashes. Her stomach had lurched violently.
Suki had seen it all, of course. Eve barely remembered what had followed, just the steady pressure of Suki's hand at her back, guiding her away from the kitchen without drama or fuss. Just her wife's low, calm voice telling the kids to finish their breakfast, that everything was fine, nothing to worry about.
Eve had muttered something about needing the loo, waving off their concern like smoke, insisting she just needed a minute to collect herself. She'd staggered out of the kitchen with one hand trailing along the wall for support, her stomach churning with nausea.
She'd barely made it to the bathroom before her body had given up any pretense of cooperation.
By the time she'd dragged herself to the bedroom, she was shaking visibly, legs felt like they might give way entirely, every movement requiring tremendous effort. She'd collapsed onto the bed and curled into herself, muscles clenched tight against the relentless pounding in her skull.
The duvet, usually a source of comfort, felt like a crushing weight. Even the relative silence of the bedroom seemed to squeeze her head like a vise, each small sound the; distant hum of traffic, the tick of the bedside clock magnified into torture.
Behind her, she heard soft footsteps crossing the carpet. A presence she would recognize anywhere, even through the haze of pain.
Suki.
There was no sigh of exasperation, no lecture about pushing herself too hard. Just the efficient swish of curtains being drawn, plunging the room into darkness. The soft click of lamps being switched off. The gentle snap of the window latch being opened to let in cool air.
The bed dipped as Suki settled beside her, solid and reassuring. Gentle fingers brushed the damp hair back from Eve's temple, then a blessedly cool flannel was pressed against her forehead.
"The plans?" Eve managed to rasp, her throat dry.
"Cancelled," Suki said simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're more important."
Eve huffed what might have been a laugh if she'd had the energy for it, her eyes still squeezed shut against even the minimal light filtering through the curtains. "You sure about that? I'm a pretty miserable cow right now."
"You're my miserable cow," Suki replied, and Eve could hear the fond smile in her voice. "Don't be so dramatic."
Despite the pain, the corner of Eve's mouth lifted slightly. Suki's hand remained at Eve's temple, her thumb moving in slow, hypnotic circles. It was quiet proof that she wasn't alone in this, that she didn't have to endure the pain in isolation the way she'd learned to do as a child.
Gradually, Eve's breathing began to slow. Her stomach settled by degrees, no longer threatening immediate rebellion. The pain remained, sharp and insistent and absolutely unmistakable but it no longer felt quite so crushing, quite so insurmountable.
Then Suki began to hum, low and quiet and achingly familiar. The tune shifted after a few minutes, words in Punjabi slipping softly into the quiet, a lullaby, perhaps, something from Suki's childhood, or something she'd sung to her own children when they were small and hurting.
It caught Eve completely off guard, so gentle and unexpected that her throat tightened with emotion. The pain was still there, still real and demanding, but somehow softened by the presence beside her, made more bearable by the simple act of being cared for.
Suki stayed. No fidgeting, no restless energy, no subtle signs of impatience. One hand continued its gentle movement through Eve's hair while the other periodically refreshed the cool cloth, pressing it carefully against her forehead.
The song eventually trailed off, but Suki didn't move. Outside the bedroom, Eve could hear the sounds of teenage life continuing, footsteps on the stairs, a door opening and closing, muffled conversation. Then Suki's voice, briefly, speaking in low, authoritative tones she couldn't quite make out.
Whatever Suki said, it worked. The front door opened and closed a few minutes later, and the house settled into complete stillness.
It was just the two of them now.
Time became fluid in the darkened room, measured only in the rhythm of her pulse and the gentle pressure of Suki's hands. Eve drifted in and out of a pain-hazed doze, but always with the awareness that Suki hadn't left.
No one had ever cared for Eve like this before. Not when she was a child in a house where pain was met with impatience and told to toughen up, not make a fuss, not waste anyone's time with complaints. She'd learned early to bite her lip, hide the shaking, keep moving no matter what. If her head felt like it might split open, she'd manage. She always managed.
Until now.
Now she didn't have to pretend strength she didn't possess. There was no judgment in the careful way Suki tended to her, no irritation at having plans disrupted, no suggestion that she was being weak or dramatic. She was simply allowed to hurt, and to be cared for while she hurt.
"I'm alright," Eve mumbled eventually, though her voice was thick and her eyes remained firmly closed. The words came out automatically, a reflex born of years of having to minimize her own pain.
"I know you are," Suki murmured back, her thumb continuing its slow, soothing circles against Eve's skin. "But I'm still staying."
The certainty in her voice was immovable, unquestionable. No negotiation required, no compromise necessary. Just fact. And she did stay. Through the worst of the pain, through the gradual easing, through the slow return to something approaching normal. Quiet and patient and absolutely, unshakeably present.
--
"It's just a stupid cold," Eve insisted, though the words came out rough and congested. She stood at the kitchen counter with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn't actually touched.
The truth was, she felt absolutely dreadful. Worse than dreadful, actually, like she'd been hit by a truck, then dragged behind it for several miles while developing a chest infection and possibly pneumonia. But admitting defeat had never been Eve's strong suit, especially not for something as pedestrian as a common cold.
Suki leaned against the refrigerator with her arms folded and looked at Eve. She took in the flushed cheeks that spoke of fever, the glassy, unfocused eyes, the slight but unmistakable sway Eve hadn't quite managed to hide since she'd walked through the front door twenty minutes ago.
"You've got a fever," Suki observed, her tone calm but uncompromising.
Eve shrugged with what she hoped looked like casual dismissal. "Low-grade. Barely worth mentioning."
"You're pale underneath all that flush."
"Maybe I'm just achieving that fashionable consumptive look," Eve replied, attempting a smirk that probably looked more like a grimace. "Very Victorian chic."
But Suki didn't so much as twitch at the deflection. "You're shivering."
Eve glanced down at her shoulders, which were indeed betraying her with a faint but persistent tremor. "That's just me being naturally dramatic. You knew what you were signing up for when you married me."
Suki pushed herself away from the refrigerator with the kind of deliberate grace that always made Eve feel like she was about to be both thoroughly told off and tenderly kissed in the same breath. She crossed the kitchen, crowding into Eve's space until the tea mug was gently but firmly nudged aside and all Eve could see was her wife's face, creased with concern.
"You need to be in bed," Suki said, and it wasn't really a suggestion.
Eve huffed out what was meant to be a laugh but came out more like a wheeze. "You do realize I'm a grown woman, not a particularly stubborn five-year-old?"
"Debatable," Suki replied without missing a beat. "At least five-year-olds can usually be bribed with sweets and carried upstairs without arguing about their independence."
That managed to pull a genuine, if brief, grin from Eve which was immediately cut short by a coughing fit that bent her forward and left her gasping. Suki's hand was there instantly, steady and warm against her back.
And Eve knew, with the clarity that comes from being thoroughly outmaneuvered, that she'd lost this particular battle.
"I still have emails to answer," she protested weakly, though even she could hear how unconvincing it sounded. "I promised Stacey, I'd call her back about dinner plans. And I promised Avani I’d help her with her economics presentation, and…”
Suki cut her off with a look; the kind that had been honed by years of managing teenagers and various family crises, sharp enough to silence anyone within a fifty-meter radius. But this particular version was softer around the edges, tempered with genuine worry.
"Eve," she said gently. "Come on. Let me take care of you."
And that was what finally broke through Eve's defenses. Not the fever or the exhaustion or the bone-deep ache that made every movement feel like an enormous effort.
Let me take care of you.
The words landed in her chest like a physical thing, warm and overwhelming and somehow more potent than any medication. Eve felt the fight drain out of her in one long, shuddering breath.
"I'm not good at this," she admitted hoarsely, "Being looked after. Being... vulnerable."
"Weak?" Suki supplied, though there was no judgment in her tone, just gentle understanding.
Eve winced at the word spoken aloud.
"You're not weak," Suki said firmly, slipping an arm around Eve's waist with careful precision, "You're sick. That's completely different."
"Feels the same from where I'm standing," Eve muttered.
"Well, you're standing in the wrong place," Suki replied with gentle authority. "It isn't weak with me. It never will be."
Something in Eve, something that had been wound tight for decades loosened just a fraction. Her chest still ached, her head still pounded, but her body seemed to recognize the truth in Suki's words and began to lean into it, seeking the comfort being offered.
"Alright," Eve whispered, her eyes closing briefly in surrender. "Alright. You win this round."
"I always win," Suki murmured, but there was no smugness in it, just a faint smile as she began to guide Eve toward the hallway.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Eve was breathing hard, her legs shaking with the exertion. Suki helped her sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt to untie her boots with the same careful attention she brought to everything else.
"Lie back," she said softly, tugging back the duvet with practiced efficiency.
Eve obeyed without argument. The pillow was blissfully cool against her overheated skin, and the sheets carried the faint scent of the lavender fabric softener Suki preferred. She sank into the mattress with a groan of relief, every muscle in her body seeming to exhale at once.
Suki moved around the room with quiet purpose; each action deliberate and considered. Tissues appeared on the bedside table, neatly arranged within easy reach. A glass of water materialized, not plain water, but water with ice and a slice of lemon, because Suki somehow remembered that Eve could never keep plain water down when she was ill.
Cold and flu tablets were pressed into her palm along with strict instructions about timing and dosage. A bowl of soup arrived later, nothing fancy, just tinned tomato heated exactly to the right temperature. Eve managed about half before her stomach rebelled, and Suki simply cleared it away without comment.
The hot water bottle came next, tucked against her side where the ache was deepest. A fresh glass of orange squash replaced the water. Eve couldn't remember the last time someone had cared for her with such thorough, unquestioning devotion.
When Suki finally climbed into bed beside her, she settled back against the headboard with a book, creating a quiet, companionable presence that somehow managed to be both restful and reassuring. It shouldn't have felt extraordinary, this simple act of being cared for. And yet, it did.
Eve closed her eyes and let the sounds wrap around her like a blanket. For once in her adult life, she didn't have to be strong or capable or fiercely independent. She didn't have to prove anything to anyone. She could simply lie still and let herself be tended to, let herself be loved.
In the quiet of the afternoon, with Suki's warmth solid and real beside her, Eve realized that this was what safety felt like. Someone who would bring you soup and adjust your pillows and read quietly nearby until you felt human again.
She drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, each time she stirred, slightly disoriented or uncomfortable, the soft sound of a turning page and Suki's steady presence anchored her back to calm.
When her eyes finally opened properly again, the light outside had shifted to the golden tones of late afternoon. Suki was still there, still reading, "You didn't have to stay the whole time," Eve said, her voice still rough but notably stronger than it had been hours earlier.
Suki looked down at her, closing the book and marking her place with one finger. Her smile was small and soft and impossibly adoring. "Yes, I did. It's my job to look after you," Suki said simply, and the words carried the weight of wedding vows and daily choices and a love that showed itself through simple actions rather than grand gesture.
The statement landed in Eve's chest like a physical thing, heavy and light at the same time. She blinked up at her wife, her eyes bright with fever and something that might have been tears.
"You're the best wife in the entire world," she whispered, a wobbly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Suki's laugh was quiet and genuine, "I like taking care of you," she said.
"Even when I'm like this?" Eve asked, her voice cracking slightly on the admission. "All stuffy and pathetic and probably contagious?"
"Especially when you're like this," Suki replied without hesitation, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Eve's temple. "Because this is when you let me the whole way in."
And Eve, too tired to maintain her usual defenses, too loved to doubt the sincerity of the words, simply nodded. Her eyes drifted closed again, her body finally relaxing completely into the mattress, Suki's promise settling deep into her bones alongside the warmth of the hot water bottle and the gentle weight of being genuinely cared for.
She didn't know exactly when she fell back asleep. She only knew that when she woke again, hours later, Suki was still there, constant as sunrise, reliable as gravity, proof that love could be measured in soup spoons and fresh tissues and the simple act of staying.
--
This time of year is always hard. It sits in her chest like a stone, heavy and unmovable, casting shadows over everything else until the whole world feels slightly out of focus.
The heat doesn't help. July in London is oppressive, the air thick and stagnant. The sunlight streaming through their bedroom windows is too bright, too aggressive. The ancient fan in the corner stutters and wheezes, moving the heavy air around without actually cooling anything. Even the ice in her drink melts too quickly, leaving her with lukewarm water.
Nothing holds still. Nothing stays the way it should.
It's the anniversary of Erica's death, though Eve doesn't need calendars or reminders to know it. Her body keeps its own calendar, marking the date with sleepless nights and an ache that settles somewhere beneath her ribs and refuses to shift. Today, like every year on this day, she woke with her chest tight and her limbs heavy, something essential missing from the world.
The day moves around her in a haze. Everything feels slightly off-kilter, the world operating on a frequency she can't quite tune into.
It's been easier these last couple of years, if easier is the right word for learning to carry grief differently. Because of Suki, mostly. Because for the first time in her adult life, she doesn't have to shoulder this particular burden alone. Suki understands loss in a way that requires no explanation, knows the peculiar weight of anniversaries, the way certain dates can ambush you with their significance. She doesn't try to fill the silence with platitudes or distraction, doesn't suggest that time heals all wounds or that Erica would want Eve to be happy.
She just knows. And that knowing is its own kind of comfort.
It's been easier in some ways since Eve learned the full truth about that night, that Erica wasn't to blame for what happened, that the guilt Eve had carried for all those years was built on incomplete information.
Easier. And infinitely harder.
Because now the only enemy is grief itself, pure and uncomplicated by blame or anger. It's a cleaner fight, perhaps, but no less exhausting
Eve still slips sometimes. Still reaches for a bottle when the ache becomes unbearable, still snaps at Stacey when her oldest friend calls just to check in, still finds herself drowning in the twin-shaped hole in her chest that nothing has ever quite managed to fill. Old habits are hard to kill, and grief has a way of making you want to revert to the survival mechanisms that got you through the worst of it.
By late afternoon, she's given up any pretense of productivity. She makes her way upstairs to their bedroom. Sunlight cuts harsh and orange across the unmade bed, and she doesn't bother to lie down, just sits heavily on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched, nursing a glass that's more ice than actual drink.
She feels sticky and restless and guilty in equal measure. Guilty for the drinking, for the space she needs, for the promises she's made and broken and made again. She isn't broken, exactly. Just emptied out, hollowed by the particular exhaustion that comes from missing someone so intensely that it becomes a physical thing.
Suki appears in the doorway like a quiet miracle, hovering for a moment as though testing the emotional temperature of the room. Eve can feel her presence without looking up.
Then she moves, crossing the room with deliberate steps and settling onto the bed beside Eve. Not crowding, not demanding attention, just offering proximity. Eve doesn't pull away, couldn't, even if she wanted to. This time, she lets Suki reach for her hand, lets their fingers thread together with the ease of long practice.
"I know this hurts," Suki says quietly, her voice carrying the weight of her own experience with loss. "Let me help."
Eve stares at the floor, "I don't know how to let you help," she admits. "I don't know how to make this better."
"You helped me," Suki reminds her, and her thumb begins a slow, grounding rhythm across Eve's knuckles. "When Jagvir's anniversary came around last year. You sat with me when I couldn't stop crying. You made me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how. You held me when I was sure I was going to fall apart completely. You knew what I needed before I did."
The memory surfaces despite Eve's resistance, Suki curled against her on this same bed. Eve remembers feeling helpless and desperate and completely out of her depth, but somehow still knowing that the only thing that mattered was staying put, being present, offering whatever comfort she could.
"She wasn't just my sister," Eve says, her voice coming out smaller than she intended. "She was my other half. From the very beginning, from birth, from first breath. I don't remember a version of my life that came before her. And after she died..." She shakes her head quickly,. "After, I didn't know who I was supposed to be without her."
Suki's hand tightens around hers, steady and warm and completely present.
Eve's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I still think about it sometimes. What if I'd been with her that night? What if I'd kept her talking for five more minutes, made her wait for a cab instead of walking? What if I'd been a better sister, a better twin?"
"You didn't do anything wrong," Suki says softly, «You know that now."
"I know it up here," Eve taps her temple with her free hand. "But I don't always feel it. Not in here." She presses her palm flat against her chest, over the space where the ache lives. "God, Suki. We used to switch places for exams when we were kids. We'd finish each other's sentences, dream the same dreams. We shared everything, clothes, friends, secrets, stupid inside jokes that nobody else understood. And then one day she was just... gone. And I was left trying to figure out how to be a whole person when I'd only ever been half of something."
Her laugh is bitter, edged with old pain. "People used to say we were like two halves of the same person. I thought they meant it as a compliment."
Suki pulls Eve into her arms, and Eve leans in without resistance, without the automatic defenses that usually spring up when she feels too seen, too vulnerable. She buries her face in the curve of Suki's neck and finally lets the tears come, not the angry, frustrated tears she's cried before, but the deep, grieving ones she's been holding back for weeks.
They're quiet tears, steady and exhausting, carrying with them all the things she's been too afraid to feel. The guilt that she survived when Erica didn't. The fear that she's failing to honor her sister's memory by being happy, by building a life that Erica will never get to see.
Suki holds her through all of it, rocking her gently when the sobs threaten to overwhelm her. She murmurs soft words in Punjabi, familiar phrases now, endearments and comfort that Eve doesn't need translated to understand. Her hands move in slow, soothing circles across Eve's back, patient and steady and absolutely unshakeable.
When the worst of it passes, when Eve's breathing evens out and the tears slow to something manageable, Suki asks quietly, "Do you want some chai?”
Eve sniffles, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "You just want to get me talking about the good stuff."
"I do," Suki admits without apology. "Because there's so much more to Erica than how she died. And I want to hear about all of it."
An hour later, they're sitting together, wrapped in a light blanket despite the heat because Eve is always cold after crying. The chai is perfectly strong and sweet and exactly the right temperature, carrying with it all the comfort of ritual and care. Suki settles beside Eve , "Tell me something about her," she says gently. "Something that makes you smile."
Eve thinks for a moment, then grins despite herself. "She had this laugh, like a kettle whistling. Really high-pitched and sudden and absolutely ridiculous. Used to drive my mum completely mad because she'd do it at the worst possible moments."
"What else?" Suki prompts, and there's genuine interest in her voice.
"She used to crawl into my bed when we were little and claim she'd had a nightmare. But half the time I knew she was lying, she just didn't want to miss out on whatever I might dream about. Like she was afraid she'd miss something important if she slept in her own bed."
Suki smiles, the expression soft and understanding. "That's very twin-like."
"She was completely fearless," Eve continues, the words coming easier now. "Used to steal cigarettes from Dad's coat pocket and smoke them behind the garden shed. And when she got caught, which she always did, because she was terrible at being sneaky, she'd make me pretend I was the one who'd done it. Said I was better at looking innocent under pressure."
They talk as the sun begins to set. About Erica's reckless courage and her inexplicable obsession with cheesy '80s love ballads. About the time she broke her nose trying to do a cartwheel in Year 9 and somehow convinced everyone it was the neighbor's dog that had knocked her over. About her terrible taste in boyfriends and her uncanny ability to make friends with literally anyone.
And Eve finds herself laughing, really laughing for the first time in days. Suki holds her hand through all of it, never letting go.
"I'm so glad you had her," Suki says eventually, as the first stars begin to appear in the darkening sky. "Even though it hurts now. Even though losing her nearly destroyed you”
Eve nods, her throat suddenly tight again. "She would have liked you, you know. She had a thing for strong women who didn't take any nonsense. Would have probably tried to steal you away from me."
Suki leans her head against Eve's shoulder, a gesture of comfort and closeness that feels like coming home. "Well, if she was anything like her sister, she’d have excellent taste," she says simply.
And Eve closes her eyes, letting herself believe that loving Erica and losing her and surviving the loss could all be part of the same story. That grief and gratitude could exist in the same space. That missing someone desperately didn't negate the possibility of being happy. Erica is gone, and that will never stop hurting. But love isn't gone. The connection isn't gone. The ability to be held and comforted and understood isn't gone.
Not while Eve remembers. Not while she has someone to remember with.
+1
Eve knows the moment she steps through the front door that something is wrong. The air inside feels charged. It's not the comfortable quiet of an empty house or the warm bustle of family life, it's the particular kind of silence that comes before storms, heavy with unspoken words and barely contained emotion.
The house looks normal, no obvious signs of disaster, no indication of actual crisis but something in the quality of the air makes her shoulders tense automatically, preparing for whatever blow is coming.
Suki stands at the kitchen counter with her back to the door, spine straight as a ruler, arms folded with the kind of precision that speaks to barely controlled emotion. She's immaculate as always, every hair in place, blouse crisp and unwrinkled, the very picture of composed capability. But Eve has learned to read the subtle signs, the tiny fractures in the armor that Suki thinks no one else can see.
The set of her jaw is wrong, held just a fraction too tight. There are small crescents pressed into the fabric of her sleeves where her fingernails have dug in. Her gaze is fixed on nothing at all, staring at the backsplash tiles as though looking at anything real might cause her carefully maintained composure to shatter completely.
"What happened?" Eve asks carefully, setting her jacket aside and placing her keys in the bowl by the door with deliberate normalcy, trying to inject some routine into whatever crisis is unfolding.
For a long moment, there's nothing but the tick of the kitchen clock and the distant hum of traffic outside. Suki doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge the question, just continues her thousand-yard stare at the wall.
Then, in a voice so carefully controlled it might as well be carved from ice: "Ash called."
And there it is. Of course. The explanation that somehow makes everything make sense and nothing make sense at the same time.
Eve can hear it now, the tremor beneath the polished surface, the fault lines running through what looks like solid ground. Six months of hope and disappointment and increasingly painful phone calls that leave Suki hollowed out and pretending otherwise.
She'd hoped, perhaps naively, that time might soften the edges of the conflict between Suki and her daughter. That distance and perspective might allow them both to see past the accumulated hurt and find their way back to each other. That Ash might begin to understand what Eve sees every day; a woman trying, sometimes clumsily but always earnestly, to love better than she was taught.
But if anything, the silence between them has only deepened. Every phone call seems to end the same way now: with tears or arguments or, worse, the kind of polite distance that feels like death by a thousand small cuts.
Eve has watched Suki absorb each failure with the stoic grace she brings to everything else, but she's seen the cracks too. The phone set down just a little too hard on the counter. The momentary flash of pain before it's locked away again. The way Suki sometimes stares at nothing for minutes at a time, lost in whatever private hell these conversations create.
"What did she say?" Eve asks softly.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," Suki replies with the kind of brisk efficiency she uses to end conversations she doesn't want to have. «It doesn't matter."
But Eve knows the particular shape of Suki's lies, the ones told not to deceive but to protect, to maintain the fiction that she's fine, that nothing can touch her, that she doesn't need comfort or care or the simple acknowledgment that this is hard.
"You're lying," Eve says quietly, without accusation or judgment, just gentle certainty.
Suki's chin lifts slightly, "I said I'm fine."
To anyone else, it might land like a slammed door, cold steel, conversation over, no trespassing allowed. But Eve learned to see past the armor to the person underneath. She can see the tremor in Suki's hands before they're quickly clasped behind her back. The way her shoulders sit just a fraction too high. The careful control of her breathing that suggests someone fighting very hard not to fall apart.
So, Eve reaches out, slow and deliberate, to touch her wife's wrist. Not grabbing, not demanding, just making contact; skin to skin, steady and warm and utterly grounding.
"No," she says softly. "You're not."
Suki flinches, not at the touch but at the truth of it. For a moment they stand frozen in a kind of standoff, Suki's walls, sharp and practiced and forty years in the making, against Eve's steady, patient care.
Eve doesn't push. Doesn't demand explanations or force conversations. She just takes Suki's hand in both of hers. "Come on," she murmurs, and her voice carries all the tenderness in the world.
Suki lets herself be led. Up the stairs, into their bedroom, where Eve helps her out of the crisp blouse with its sharp creases and perfect buttons, all the professional armor that usually makes her feel powerful and in control.
Instead, she finds soft things: a cotton vest worn smooth with washing, the cardigan Suki pretends she doesn't like because it's too loose and comfortable to be properly professional. Clothes that don't require performance or perfection, that she can just be in.
Eve runs a bath, the ritual as familiar as breathing by now. Steam rises from the water, carrying with it the scent of lavender. She steadies Suki as she lowers herself into the tub, not because she thinks Suki might fall, but because she knows Suki believes she's not allowed to need support.
And when the warm water takes her weight, when the heat begins to unknot the tension in her shoulders, the mask finally slips. Her eyes close. Her spine, held rigid for hours, finally curves into something approaching relaxation.
Eve kneels beside the tub. She can feel it then, the moment when Suki's hands, clenched tight for so long, finally begin to relax.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" Eve asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Suki doesn't answer immediately. She just breathes, slow and careful, as though she's afraid that speaking might shatter whatever fragile peace she's found in the warm water.
Finally: "She hates me."
"She doesn't," Eve says with quiet conviction. "She's angry. That's different."
Suki's laugh is brittle around the edges, "It feels the same from where I'm sitting." Her voice thins to almost nothing. "I keep thinking... I did this. I pushed her away with my expectations, my need for control, my complete inability to just let her be who she is. I can't..." Her voice cracks completely.
But Eve won't let her swallow this pain, won't let her carry it alone. She gently pulls Suki's hand away from her mouth and presses a soft kiss to her damp knuckles.
"Let me help you Lean on me." Eve says softly.
Suki swallows hard, her throat working around words she's not sure she's allowed to say. "I don't know if I can. I don't know how to... how to need help."
"You can," Eve insists, reaching out to brush wet strands of hair away from Suki's face. Her thumb lingers at her temple, tracing slow, grounding circles against her skin. "You do it already, love. Every time you let me make you tea when you've had a hard day. Every time you tell me you're tired instead of pretending to be fine. Every time you let me see you like this. You already know how."
Eve gathers her into her arms then, not caring that her shirt immediately soaks through. Not caring about the ache in her knees from kneeling on the bathroom tiles or the awkward angle of her spine as she leans over the edge of the tub.
All that matters is holding her wife as she finally, finally lets go.
Suki's sobs start quietly, almost apologetically, as though she still believes she needs permission to fall apart. But Eve only holds her tighter, stroking her back in long, soothing movements, pressing steady kisses to her temple until the dam breaks completely and the tears come without reservation.
When the worst of the storm passes, when Suki's breathing evens out and the shaking in her shoulders subsides, Eve presses her lips to her hairline one more time.
"I've got you," she whispers, and means it with every fiber of her being. "Always."
Later, after Suki has been cocooned in soft towels and guided to the kitchen table, Eve makes chai. Not just any chai, but the specific blend Suki taught her months ago, cardamom and cinnamon and just enough ginger to provide warmth without overwhelming heat.
"Talk to me," Eve says gently. "Not about the fight, not about what went wrong. Tell me about Ash. Tell me about the good things. The first time she made you laugh. The things you're proud of. The reasons you love her."
Suki hesitates, as though she's forgotten that there are good memories to be found among all the recent pain. But gradually, haltingly, she begins to speak.
About Ash as a child, stubborn and brilliant and absolutely fearless. About the toy stethoscope she wore everywhere between the ages of four and seven, insisting on checking everyone's heartbeat. About her quiet intensity, the way she could focus on a problem for hours until she'd worked it out completely. About her unexpected gentleness with smaller children, her fierce loyalty to her friends, her dry sense of humor that could catch you completely off guard.
Eve listens. She nods and asks gentle questions and smiles at the stories that make Suki's face light up despite her pain. She guides the conversation toward love, toward pride, toward all the reasons Ash became the remarkable woman she is.
For once, their roles are completely reversed. For once, Suki allows herself to be the one who needs comfort, who accepts care without trying to give it back immediately. And Eve, stubborn, loving, endlessly devoted Eve proves that she learned well from all those times Suki held her together.
She never lets go. Never looks away. Never suggests that Suki should be over this by now or that she's being too sensitive or that family conflicts are just part of life.
Instead, she offers the same unwavering presence that Suki has given her through hangovers and hot flashes and migraines and grief. A silent promise that even in the darkest moments, even when the people you love most can't find their way back to you, you don't have to weather the storm alone.
Some problems don't have easy solutions. Some relationships can't be fixed with good intentions and patient love. But the pain of that reality becomes bearable when it's shared, when it's held by someone who refuses to let you carry it alone.
And in the soft light of the kitchen, with chai growing cold between them and the weight of the day finally settling into something manageable, both women understand what they've built together: not just love, but sanctuary. They have each other. And sometimes, when everything else feels uncertain and fragile and impossibly complicated, that is enough.